


What It Would Mean

by kowaiyoukai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-29
Updated: 2008-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:11:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/pseuds/kowaiyoukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's got his dreams, and Sam doesn't have the heart to correct him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What It Would Mean

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [spn_monthlyfic](http://spn-monthlyfic.livejournal.com/)'s July 2008 round. Challenge: ladydeth12, Jess, Cassie, cucumber, swingset, dozen, "I don't like blue cheese dressing." This might not be what you were thinking, but it ended up that once I got the idea it just kind of wrote itself. Oh well. :P

Sometimes Dean could see it. There'd be a small house, white siding, wooden picket fence, green grass that was taken care of by the sprinklers the kids played in. The kids, there'd be five of them—no, what the hell, make it a dozen—would be in summer clothes. The girls would have long hair tired back in ponytails, huge grins that were impossible to get rid of, and sandals that were caked in mud. They would wear some combination of shorts and t-shirts or little sundresses, and all of them would giggle when they ran out into the sprinkler, chasing the water around as if they could catch it if they just tried hard enough.

The boys would be a bit more rambunctious. They'd have short hair that was cropped close to their heads, or maybe longer hair that fell just into their eyes, and streaks of dirt would be all over their skin and clothes. All of their clothes would be dirty from too much rough-housing, and of course there'd be hell to pay for that. But that was later, and right now they could just run around and wrestle each other to the ground, or toss a ball around, or play tag until they were heaving from running so hard.

It was so clear in his mind. Cassie and Jess would be there, and they'd be laughing, standing near each other as they made lunch. Cassie would be horrible at the grill, so that was Jess' job, and as Jess flipped burgers and Cassie made the salad—filling it with cucumbers, tomatoes, and those little onions that Dean could never talk her out of adding in—Sam would be standing next to him, maybe leaning against the back door, and the sun would glint off his eyes as he smiled.

One of the girls would complain about the food. "I don't like blue cheese dressing." Or "Hamburgers again?" Or maybe even "I think I'm allergic to broccoli." And Sam would go over to her and ruffle her hair, and his grin would change the girl's pout to a smile like Dean knew it always did for him.

They would get together and sit down around the long picnic table in their backyard—so long it could seat all sixteen of them comfortably. Everyone would eat at their own pace—some gulping things down while others chewed slowly. Condiments would get passed around, and people would feel obligated to compliment the cook. Dean would take all of the credit himself, and no one would believe him, and that was just fine with him.

After lunch, the girls would clean up and Dean would go with Sam to play with the kids on the swingset he'd just bought. He would push one of the kids up higher and higher, until all he could hear was laughter and all he could see was the pumping feet. The other kids would all want a turn, of course, and Sam would have to help, and they'd spend the next hour sending the kids into the sky, sending them higher than they ever thought they could go.

At night, when he put them to bed, Dean would wrap the covers securely around each one of them and wait for Sam to kiss them on the forehead. When he turned off the lights, some of them would call him back, and he'd double-check the closet and under the beds for them, even though he already knows it's safe. He'd turn on a few night-lights and open or close the window as requested, and then Sam and him would leave the room. They'd go upstairs to their separate bedrooms, to Cassie and Jess, and they'd each make love until they were worn out. They would fall asleep that night just like they did every other night, content in the knowledge that they had everything they had ever wanted. That they were happy.

It always surprised Dean when he remembered it wasn't real. He wondered if Sam understood how badly he wanted that life.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sometimes Sam could see it. There'd be a small house, cracked and peeling siding, half-rotted wooden picket fence, brown grass that crunched underfoot when someone walked over it. The kids—there'd be too many of them—would be in undersized clothes that should have been replaced over a year ago. The girls would have their hair tied back with rubber bands and twist ties, expressionless faces, and sandals that were caked in mud. They would wear some combination of shorts and t-shirts that didn't match, and all of them would look accusingly at him as he approached.

The boys would be a bit more rambunctious. They'd have short hair that was cropped too close to their heads, or else longer hair that they wanted to cut but were always shoving behind their ears, and streaks of dirt would be all over their skin and clothes. All of their clothes would be torn and ragged, and they would never be wearing anything that fit them properly. Whenever they had the chance, they would fight with each other, throwing each other to the ground and only stopping when someone gave up, which no one ever did.

It was so clear in his mind. Cassie and Jess would be there, and they'd be avoiding him and Dean, running around the house doing the chores that were never finished. When they had a chance to put together a few sandwiches for lunch—and there was never enough food for everyone, they just didn't have the money—it would be a fight to see who could get to the biggest one first. Dean would be standing next to him, maybe with an arm outstretched, trying to apologize but unable to.

All of the kids would complain about the food. "I hate this shit." Or "He stole half of my sandwich!" Or maybe even "I'm still hungry." And Dean and Sam would go to each of them, trying to make amends, but they just wouldn't listen.

They would all go their separate ways to eat. Some of them would go to their rooms, others would eat on the stairs or in the hallway or on a chair in the living room. Everyone would gulp what they had down, carefully making sure they ate every last crumb on their plate. When they finished, the dishes would get tossed wherever was closest, and Cassie and Jess would go around collecting them for half an hour.

After lunch, the girls would clean up and Dean would go try to apologize to Cassie and Jess some more while Sam went to the backyard and stared at the broken swingset. The chain had snapped, and it dangled on the ground uselessly. One of the kids would go and pick it up, whipping it around until it hit another kid, and then there'd be a fight, just like there was always a fight. They would drag each other to the ground, hitting, and kicking and screaming, and Sam would rush over, separating them and sending each of them to their rooms. But he wouldn't bother to follow them to see if they actually went—he'd just stand there and stare at the broken chain.

At night, when he put them to bed, Sam would talk to the kids. He'd apologize to each of them as Dean checked the room for monsters, salting the doors and windows and writing ancient runes along their walls. When he turned off the lights, none of them called him back, although he heard a few kids crying from other rooms. Dean and Sam would go upstairs to their separate bedrooms, to Cassie and Jess, and they'd each try to explain themselves. Hunting was important, they'd say. They were saving people's lives, it wasn't something they could just give up. They knew they made no money, they knew they were never home, but their job was something no one else could do. Sometimes Jess would let him fuck her, let him tear her open until she was raw. It was the only release he was allowed, and he took it, even when she didn't want to give it. In the morning, when they left again, no one would see them off.

It always surprised Sam when he remembered that Dean wanted a home. He wondered if Dean understood what it would mean.

 

_fin._


End file.
